Pick a Direction

One thing travel has taught me over the years, is that mishaps are often the highlights. I have seen wonders, met curious characters, and taken more photos of doorways than I care to admit, but the stories I remember best, usually start with something going wrong.

Take my first visit to England. I was in my twenties and full of confidence, with more nerve than sense. Like many tourists, I wanted to see the usual sights, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, maybe have a pint in a pub with questionable carpet. What I did not anticipate was the great driving experiment.

Somewhere between customs and the rental desk, I made the bold decision to rent a car. I cannot recall the make or model, but it was small, manual, and very British. I had learned on a standard, so I felt up to the task. The first sign of trouble came when I instinctively reached for the gear stick on the right and wound up cranking the window down. More than once.

It took a bit, but I started to get the feel of it. That is, until I found myself driving straight onto Tower Bridge… on the wrong side. Not the wrong side of the road, mind you, but the wrong direction entirely. Apparently, based on the time of day, traffic was only supposed to flow one way. Mine was not it.

I edged up beside a double-decker bus, feeling oddly proud that I had made it this far. Just then, a cyclist pulled up beside me. When the light changed, I must have drifted too close to the bus. The cyclist tried to move but toppled over like a domino. He shouted a few choice words, which I understood perfectly despite his accent, and I gave him a thumbs up before continuing, at a crawl.

My final test came in the form of a roundabout. I slowed down, looked left, and eased in. That was when I learned the hard way that British traffic comes from the right.

I pulled over, found a taxi, and let someone else handle the gears from then on. I have never driven in another country since. Nor do I plan to.